The white pages of a book with black letters tell a story everyone can read.
Crisp black defining the words.
Crisp white defining the page.
A smudge of gray on the pristine page means nothing but damage and imperfection.
An imperfect, meaningless,
neither here nor there gray.
All my life I have been so unkind to gray.
Never allowing any grayness, no place for uncertainty, no place for not knowing.
I must always know. Be perfectly yin or the yang.
A pristine white page with pristine black words.
Spelling out clearly who I am. A pristine clear story in a pristine smudgeless book.
But I get tired of writing this pristine book and my palms get sweaty and the words start to smudge.
Maybe it is yin and yang rather than yin or yang. Maybe the swirly symbol captures a fleeting moment before getting muddled into a comfortable gray.
Like the color of the storm clouds that are scary and thunderous.
But they rain down blessed water and breathe life into little seeds that become big trees.
And wash away the sooty dullness of the world.
Maybe perfection is indeed a fleeting moment like a latte art.
One must muddle it to drink it and get caffeinated to go write this perfect book of life.